Chapter Text
Sam’s textbooks weigh nothing compared to the anxious knot that has been tightening in his stomach all day.
Pandora Creek's high school counts about two hundred students. The hallway stretches out in front of him, a familiar blend of letterman jackets, dark denim, and the occasional plaid skirt, all of it condensed into a wave of teenage bodies. Locker doors slam in quick succession. Someone’s headphones leak a pitched guitar riff as they pass, instantly swallowed up into the cacophonous noise of people chatting, laughing, complaining about how bad they did on their last test.
The crowd parts for Sam like it always does. A few classmates clap his shoulder in passing, and he gets ‘hey man!’ thrown his way from guys who’d never look twice at him if he weren’t the school’s star quarterback. Sam doesn’t acknowledge them. His mind is caught on the physics quiz next period, the scout from out of state who’s supposedly coming to Friday’s game, facing his parents tonight.
And then he hears it.
“Watch where you’re going, freak!”
A little further down the hallway, two jocks have cornered someone against the faded blue lockers. Their varsity jackets mean Sam probably knows them, maybe even considers them friends. The guy on the right leans forward, pulling up his broad shoulders in a clear intimidation display, one forearm braced above the smaller figure’s head as he cuts off any escape routes. A couple of steps closer, and Sam can see the guy’s mouth bent in a smirk he doesn’t like the look of. Bodies shift, heads turn. It’s a familiar scene, one that plays out in this school pretty often, but it still draws attention.
Techno looks up.
His blue eyes flick away, then. Not to the bullies, but past them, through the gap between onlookers, straight at where Sam stands frozen now with his physics textbook still tucked under one arm. Their eyes lock.
Sam swallows. Techno’s expression doesn’t change, showing only that flat, unimpressed mask he always seems to wear at school, but Sam can almost delude himself into thinking that something moves behind it when Techno catches his gaze. Something that says ‘I know you’re seeing this, and I know you won’t do anything about it’. It’s the exact same look Techno gave him three months ago, fingers fidgeting with damp grass, when he whispered, ‘You think I don’t know the truth about you?’
Sam’s feet don’t stop moving. He holds that eye contact for one short heartbeat, two, and then he’s tilting his head down, toward his friend walking alongside him who is prattling on about something Sam doesn’t give a shit about - Friday's game, probably - like the whole exchange with Techno never happened.
“I didn’t see you there,” the jock says with a loud, sadistic laugh. “Hard to notice somebody who looks like they crawled out of a dumpster behind the mall.” It earns him a few chuckles from the other students.
Nobody intervenes. Least of all Sam, who could probably stop this just by telling the bullies to knock it off. He has the social leverage in this school to do that.
Sam keeps walking.
Four days earlier saw Techno sitting in the front of Sam’s truck.
The upholstery smelled of old coffee and the pine-scented air freshener his mom hung from the rearview mirror. Techno had plucked it down when he got it, letting it swing lazily from one finger, the chains on his belt clinking together every time he shifted on the passenger seat.
“This thing smells terrible,” Techno said, his voice a low sound always half a step away from mocking, from grating on Sam’s nerves. “It smells like a funeral home trying to play coy.”
Sam sighed. “Put it back, Techno.”
“Make me.”
Sam reached over, but Techno caught his wrist with fingers that were always startlingly cold. The night outside the windshield was pitch black, impenetrable aside from a blinking red safety light on the old water tower on the edge of town that painted a silhouette against the stars. The truck was sitting in the same dirt road Sam always parked it on when they spent time together, a place where nobody would drive past after nine.
“You’re an asshole,” Sam said lightly.
“I thought that was your favorite thing about me?” Techno said, grinning sharp and brief.
Sam leaned in for a kiss. Techno didn’t move, barely even tipping his chin up into it. That was the thing Sam couldn’t get used to. Techno never rushed, always waited for Sam to come to him, like an invitation he extended but never acted on himself. Sam’s tongue darted out, tasting Techno’s cherry lip balm and the faint bitterness of a cigarette Techno probably smoked behind the bleachers when skipping class. His hand found the hem of Techno’s band shirt, fingers sliding beneath it to rest against the warm skin of Techno’s stomach. Techno made a soft noise in response, and Sam felt it instantly travel down to his groin.
“You wanna go again?” Techno asked, finally pulling away a bit so he could speak.
“No,” Sam said. “It’s getting late.”
“Buzzkill.”
Sam’s fingers curled, moving over to brace against Techno’s waist, pulling another noise from him. A short gasp that Sam stored away in the back of his mind for later nights where they couldn't meet up. He moved his hand higher, pushing up the shirt, thumb pressing against Techno’s stomach. Techno arched into the touch, and the steering wheel dug into Sam’s side, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything for a moment, except the way Techno’s eyes closed and his mouth went slack.
“Sam,” Techno breathed, sounding half undone already.
Sam stopped with his palm flat against Techno’s chest, feeling the heartbeat beneath pick up like a frantic drum. “We should-”
“Please don’t say we should stop,” Techno complained.
“We should,” Sam said. “My parents will worry.”
Techno’s eyes opened fully, and something behind them flickered. It wasn’t hurt. No, Sam would know better than anybody that Techno would never allow himself to be hurt by this thing they were doing. But whatever else it was, Sam didn’t like it either. “Right, of course. Can’t let the star quarterback get so carried away he’ll get in trouble with his dad,” Techno said.
“That’s not what I meant,” Sam lied.
But Techno was already pulling fully away from him, straightening his shirt and reaching for the door handle. The smile he threw Sam’s way was a challenge. “See you at school, Sam. Wave if you feel like it.”
The door swung open and the night swallowed him whole. Sam drove home in silence.
Again, the locker gets slammed. This time because the jock shoved Techno’s shoulder hard enough to knock him into the metal. The clang echoes. Some people keep walking, while others are watching. There’s no teacher in sight.
“Don’t have anything to say this time?” the jock mocks. “Usually you’re all mouth. What, too busy painting your nails to come up with a clever retort?”
Techno’s lips twitch, as if he’s pushing down on a smile. His voice is bored and precise when he answers. “Honestly, I’m just impressed you know what the word ‘retort’ means. I had you pegged as illiterate.”
A few more snickers pass through the crowd, and the jock’s face goes red. The punch comes fast, a simple fist to the gut that folds Techno in half with a grunt. Someone cheers, and a few others mutter under their breath. Techno doubles over, pink hair falling in front of his face, and Sam watches as the jock grabs it and shoves him upright against the lockers again.
“You don’t talk to me like that, faggot!” the jock spits, punching Techno in the face. Blood spills out across Techno’s chin.
Sam’s feet are rooted to the floor by that word. There is some part of him that screams for him to step in, to do something, but he is held in place by the echo of his father’s voice. You keep your head down about that kind of thing, boy. And Sam is the sheriff’s son. The town’s golden child. The popular team captain. He has a reputation to uphold.
His secret will have to fester in his chest like rot.
The jock rears his arm back for another punch. Before that can happen, Techno moves. He stomps the heel of his combat boot down onto the guy’s toes, making him yelp and lose his grip. In the same motion, Techno swings his head forward for a brutal headbutt that cracks against the jock’s nose with a sound like a dry branch snapping in two. He staggers backwards, hands flying to his face. Techno twists, stumbling out between the two bullies and toward a gap in the crowd which parts just enough to let him pass, and then he’s gone, swallowed by the corner of the hallway up ahead. Distantly, Sam hears the boys’ bathroom door open and slam shut with a bang.
The jock is swearing up a storm, the other one awkwardly hovering over him to help. For a tense second, nobody moves, then it’s as if the entire student body of Pandora’s Creek exhales at once, and things pick up as normal again. A teacher finally appears, looking appropriately startled about the active nosebleed going on.
And Sam remains exactly where he is.
His friend tugs at his sleeve, and Sam hears the mumbled, “Dude, that was insane,” but he doesn't answer.
His father’s voice remains stuck in his head. Focus on your future, son. Don’t get distracted by garbage that’s not your problem.
Sam raises his hand, a gesture that’s meant to dismiss. “Get to class,” he says. “I forgot to grab some stuff from my locker.”
The hallway empties slowly, kids trickling into their classrooms as the bell warns shrilly overhead. Sam waits by the water fountain, pretending to drink, feeling the cold metal press against his lips while the water keeps running. His reflection in the silver chrome is blurry and too close. When the last few stragglers have disappeared, he pushes the bathroom door open.
Sam paid enough attention to know Techno never came back out. He probably hid in a stall until everybody left, and now he’s standing over one of the running sinks, splashing water onto his face, dripping pink against off-white porcelain.
He doesn’t look up when the door opens. Though he does glance over when Sam locks it behind him.
“You’re going to get us into trouble,” Techno says, returning to cleaning his face. “Locking doors? Whatever will the student council say?”
“Don’t be like that,” Sam says.
Techno snorts wetly, another few thick globs of blood sliding into the sink from his chin. “Eloquent. Is that what they’re teaching in AP English these days?”
Sam crosses the bathroom in a few quick strides, grabbing Techno’s elbow and spinning him around. The action is rougher than he meant it to be - or maybe that’s not true, and it’s exactly how Sam intended it - so Techno’s lower back hits the edge of the sink with a wince.
Up close, the damage isn’t as bad as Sam expected. A split lip, the bleeding not having stopped. A bruise blooming purple lower on Techno’s jaw. Dried blood that makes the full picture seem more gnarly than it is. Those pretty blue eyes looking at him with something that Sam can’t place, whether it’s amusement or exhaustion.
“What?” Techno says.
“What was that out there?” Sam asks, voice tight.
“Pretty sure it’s called assault, actually,” Techno says. “You know, when somebody beats the shit out of somebody else in public while everybody watched and doesn’t do anything.”
“I-” Sam starts, swallowing down something that is almost shame. Techno doesn’t let him finish.
“I know,” he says with a smile, wiping the remaining wet blood off with the back of his hand. “Of course, the sheriff’s son can’t be seen defending the town faggot.” Techno spits the word out, again making Sam’s throat close up. “Whatever would people say?”
“It’s not like that,” Sam says weakly.
“Then what is it like, Sam?” Techno laughs. He brushes his fingers through his long hair in exasperation. Sam watched him dye it once, kneeling over the edge of a stained shower tub. The pink is gorgeous to Sam. It’s also one of many things that makes Techno the constant target of what happened in the hallway earlier.
Sam’s hand falls away from Techno’s elbow, suddenly feeling as if it doesn’t belong there. Techno crosses his arms instead, bunching up the fabric of his black hoodie.
“I wanted to,” Sam says, quieter still.
“But you didn’t,” Techno says.
“I didn’t.”
Sam swallows again, noticing how Techno traces the movement with his eyes. He flicks his hand. “Get me some more paper towels, would you?”
Sam steps back, the distance feeling worse this time. He goes and grabs a handful of brown paper towels from the dispenser on the wall, running a few under the tap. Techno is inspecting his own face in the mirror once more, pushing against the bottom of his lip. When Sam hands him the towels, he sets about cleaning the remainder of the blood.
“You shouldn't antagonize them,” Sam says halfheartedly.
In the mirror, the image of Techno draws up an unimpressed eyebrow. “Ah yes, of course, it’s my fault I got beaten up. I should just pretend to be something I’m not, like you do, and then people like that jock won’t feel the need to beat the crap out of me.” His voice is flat, but there’s a tiredness underneath it that Techno doesn’t often allow to shine through.
“That’s not what I meant,” Sam says. He says that a lot to Techno, doesn’t he? Ironic.
“Then what did you mean?” Techno replies this time.
The bathroom is silent for several seconds aside from the running water. Techno balls up the paper towels, now rusty in color, with hands that have chipped black nail polish and metal rings on several fingers.
“I hate this,” Sam says instead.
“Hate what?”
“Everything about this,” Sam admits. “I hate watching it happen.”
Techno smiles again, starting to braid his hair. “So stop watching? It’s what everybody else in town does.”
“You know I can’t,” Sam says.
He gets a sardonic half-smile in response. “Sounds like a you problem, Sam.”
Three months ago was when Sam’s life changed for the better and for the worse.
Three months since Sam ran to find solace behind the bleachers after the homecoming game, shaking and nauseous after listening to his teammates in the showers talking about the cheerleaders they wanted to fuck, and realizing with cold horror that he still felt nothing. Three months since Techno had been there, earbuds attached to a Walkman clipped to his belt, smoking a cigarette while leaning against the gate. Three months since Sam had frozen up, but then just sat down, deciding it was the lesser evil between that and needing to go back to faking something he could no longer pretend was there. Three months since Techno had watched him for several minutes, then sat down next to him, not asking questions, just existing in the same space as Sam. Three months since ‘you think I don’t know the truth about you?’ .
Three months since Sam had leaned in and kissed Techno without planning to, without thinking about it, without any thoughts except the desperate urge to see if it would feel different than kissing a girl.
It did.
“Sam.” Techno turns towards him again. He looks serious in a way he rarely does. “What are we doing?”
“I don’t know,” Sam says immediately, because he won’t act as if it hasn’t been on his mind either.
“Are you ever going to know?” Techno asks.
The question hits Sam harder than he expected. It feels like an accusation, a heap of guilt, and so he deflects, the way he’s good at. “You’re the one who said there would be no strings attached. I think ‘let’s just have fun’ were your exact words. You didn’t want anything serious.”
“Right,” Techno says, looking away. “Forget it.”
“If you changed your mind, you should at least have the balls to tell me,” Sam says, harshly. He knows it’s deeply unfair, but he feels backed into a corner, and that means he’s lashing out.
Naturally, Techno responds with a matching defensiveness. “Since when do you want me to tell you things? You don’t even want to be seen with me in the hallway.”
Sam allows it to sink into his stomach, adding another layer to that anxious knot. He deserves this, probably. Just like he deserves Techno shouldering past him and out of the bathroom.
Sam doesn’t reach out or stop him. He looks at his own reflection in the mirror now. He doesn’t recognize the person staring back anymore.
Practice that afternoon is ruthless.
Their coach runs them through drills until Sam’s legs ache and his lungs burn, and there’s no room left in his head for anything except the upcoming game. It’s a relief. For two hours, he isn’t thinking about that look on Techno’s face. Afterwards, in the changing room, the team is loud and rowdy as usual. The bully is on the team, because of course he is, and he’s telling an exaggerated version of the hallway encounter where he dodged Techno’s boot, to everyone’s impressed jeering. Sam pulls his shirt over his head and says nothing.
Not until one of them addresses him. “Yo, Sam! Did you see the freak mouth off today?”
Sam methodically arranges his protective gear. “Yeah.”
“Little bastard ran off to cry in the bathroom, I heard.”
“Coach says they’re sending a head scout here for Friday’s game,” Sam says. “We should focus on that.”
He gets some chuckles, though it’s not an odd reaction for him. Or for the persona Sam has made for himself.
“Man, you’re always so serious,” the bully says, slapping him on the back. “Loosen up, Captain. We’ll crush em on Friday, promise.”
Sam forces a grin that he knows is convincing. But when the team asks him to grab a burger, he makes up some sort of excuse about his parents so he can slip out early.
The drive home takes him past the trailer park.
He doesn’t have to take this way, Sam is painfully aware. There are a few different ways he can pick to get from the high school to his neighborhood, and two of them are faster. But his truck turns onto the street Techno lives on anyway, and he slows down slightly as he passes the trailer park’s entrance.
Techno’s trailer is the third one on the left. Sam knows it from the one time he bothered to bring Techno home, before he got too scared somebody would spot them. It has a Chevy without wheels up on blocks that Techno is supposed to be fixing up but never seems to work on, and a porch light that flickers obnoxiously. That the light is on doesn’t tell Sam much, since Techno’s mom often forgets to turn it off, or she doesn’t care, or she can’t get out of bed to do it.
Techno told him once, late at night in the backseat of Sam’s truck where they were tangled together, that she’s not a bad mom. Because she’s not much of a mom at all.
But today, the living room light is on too. Sam can see a dim yellow glow through the curtains, and he imagines Techno is probably in there, doing homework or making dinner. Sam’s truck idles at the entrance, and his hand hovers over the turn signal.
He doesn’t pull in.
He drives onward, past the trailer park, then the shops, then the church with its sign that lets the townsfolk of Pandora’s Creek know that ‘God Is Always Watching’, like some benevolent reminder they are never alone with their sins. Before long, Sam reaches perfectly kept lawns and white picket fences that are staples for the upper middle class families, the ones Sam has been a part of his entire life. He pulls into the driveway of his home and kills the engine, sitting in the dark for a short moment, hands on the wheel and staring at the front door.
His father’s police cruiser is also in the driveway. Inside, Sam knows exactly what is waiting for him. His mom will have dinner ready, and his dad will ask about how practice went. Sam will say all the right things like he always does, ignoring that anxious knot.
For an unbearable moment, he wonders what would happen if he put the truck in reverse, drove far away from Pandora’s Creek, and never looked back. Not at his parents nor at Techno. At none of it. Just... be gone.
But he does go inside. Dinner is meatloaf and potatoes with green beans. His dad does ask about football practice and the scout, and expresses his hope that it will help Sam get a leg up once college applications roll around. His mother asks him if he’s eating enough, since his level of sportsmanship requires a lot of energy. Sam reassures them, telling them everything is fine, practice went well, the team’s looking strong. All of it pouring from his lips on autopilot. Afterward, he does his homework at the kitchen table, while his mother does the dishes and his father watches TV in the living room - some cop show - with a beer in his hand. At ten o’clock, Sam says goodnight to them. He brushes his teeth, lies down in bed, and stares at the football trophies gleaming on their shelf on the other wall.
He hopes he doesn’t dream of pink hair, blue eyes, and a smile that cuts like a knife.